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Scarfe was not listening. Susan crossed to the mirror, flicked her corn-colored hair more or less into place, picked up her satchel again and headed for 5Q formroom, deserted now and dark. She turned on one light and packed her books for evening study, checking the subjects against the timetable pinned inside the desk lid. Then she walked back down the corridor toward the stairs. Gauck had said, tonelessly and without anger,Comrade professor, I am obeying orders. You are obeying orders too. Ive never impeded you. I have read your reports, Reese said. I studied them carefully. You did not mention this development.” A freight elevator shot him to the roof of the next building. From here, given luck, he could cross to a still further building and make his getaway. Ask him. Offer him another dollar. He pushed in the blue button. He gave her the box.Ill be quiet, she said. “You won’t hear a thing.” She held it tightly. Southerner, aint you? Tell by your accent. I have in hand your letter of fears and surmises regarding the end of the world: the chilling absence of people on the streets and slideways and in neighboring houses (which understandably depresses you); the vanishment of friends and relatives; the cessation of all personal mail (this letter at least is an exception!); the decline in news of human interest on your mass mediator and its replacement by what you call Picasserie or robo-blobs; the surliness of robots when you address questions to them; the invasion of your home at all hours by other robots (who, however, I note, continue to deliver to you your wheat germ, yogurt, and other necessities); the failure of indoor and street lights (though not of robo-supply electricity itself and other basic utilities); the labor you have been put to digging a latrine in your garden; the urge you feel to laugh and babble wildly (which you do well to repress—Congratulations on your courage!); the ominous and evil-smelling gray fogs which roll along the streets and often blanket most of the city; the fine metal filaments which have recently crawled like wire-worms or fairy ivy into your home; your wee-hour-of-the-night dreads that some cold mindless machine is running the cosmos and not a warmly personal God; the darkness; the damp; the dimming of the stars; the smell of mold; the fading forever of childish voices; the unintelligible croaking coming closer every night; the rustle of dry leaves across the floors of long-empty swimming pools. Look, honey, I said briskly, putting an arm companionably around her shoulders, weve been married four years. Of course the honeymoon’s over! What kind of imbeciles,” I asked with complete reasonableness, “would we be if it weren’t? I love you, sure,” I assured her, shrugging a shoulder. “Of course. You bet. Always glad to see you; any wife of old Al Pullen is a wife of mine! But after four years I walk up the stairs when I come home; I no longer run up three at a time. That’s life,” I said, clapping her cheerfully on the back. “Even four-alarm fires eventually die down, you know.” I smiled at her fondly. “And as for cute little notes tucked in your purse-help, help!” I should have known better, I guess; there are certain things you just can’t seem to explain to a woman. Mrs. Reed is actually an ex-newswoman—but very recently so. She was voted New England Newspaperwoman of the Year, twice in eight years while combining newswork with short-story writing, a private life as a faculty wife, the birth of two children, and her first two novels. (Latest: At War as Children, Farrar, Straus and Giroux,1964.) A Guggenheim novel award last year finally took her out of the ranks of the working press. daniel radcliffe equus nude pictures My memory was a fogged window, suddenly exposed to fresh air. Jay got in with her after some difficulty. Are you a religious man, Johnny? The sponsor kinda liked it-he just signed for another one in the fall! Millie disliked Dobbs and his Solidarity Party on principle, being a suffrage supporter herself, but knew nothing about him or any of the other opponents to the movement that wasnt public knowledge. Neither did Ephraim. According to him, bachelor Dobbs was a backward-leaning blowhard and his minions “a pack of blustering rabble-rousers,” and Dobbs’ entire public life had been little more than a sham. His “devotion to public service” as water commissioner was the result of nepotism — his brother had been a member of the board of supervisors at the time of his appointment — and the Solidarity Party a humbug designed to provide him with unwarranted attention and a living from donations and dubious speaking engagements instead of from honest work. No public scandal had ever been attached to him, either. Josiah Pitman and two other men were busily hand-lettering signs and placards with thin brushes dipped in black paint when Sabina entered the Solidarity Partys alleged suite. The room was rife with their handiwork, propped all along one wall and stacked on tables and floor — preparations for their opposition attendance, no doubt, at Saturday evening’s Voting Rights for Women benefit in Union Square. One she glanced at, a cardboard sign stapled toa length of wood resembling a fence picket, bore the slogan:Woman Suffrage a Folly! Another urged:Keep the Fair Sex Out of Politics! The others would express the same regressive sentiments. He sniffed. He always sniffs. Maybe hes allergic to plants..
